


PDA in Old Turku

by zed_azrael



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Community: nordic5_xmas, Gen, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:55:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1812616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zed_azrael/pseuds/zed_azrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Even though they've been married for so long, Finland still is insecure when it comes to public displays of affection. Unfortunately, Sweden is insecure with Finland's insecurities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	PDA in Old Turku

**Author's Note:**

> Pinch hit originally posted to [livejournal](http://zed-azrael.livejournal.com/40495.html#cutid1) on 2 January 2011.

At Sealand’s insistence, they promise to go out for dinner once every week or so. They’ve never done this before, and like Sealand, Sweden thinks this is largely overdue. Sealand bounds around the house that evening in the moments before they leave, Hanatamago yipping at his ankles as he urges Finland to hurry with his paperwork. “How much longer?” he demands.

Sweden exchanges a glance with his spouse, an unspoken agreement to make time move more quickly for Sealand, just this once. “I’m just about done,” Finland says, fixing his papers into a neat stack.

The car ride is brief and Sealand fills the space with constant chatter on things like how irritating it is that he can never look a person in the eye—he always has to choose one and stare at that. They walk from the parking lot to the restaurant in the same fashion, Sealand between his parents, their hands linked together.

“Have you ever noticed,” Sealand says, his breath flooding from his lips in a rush as he putters down the sidewalk, eyes large and delighting in the remarkable way his feet hit the ground. “That Papa’s shoes go ‘clack-clack’ and Mama’s go ‘parum-parum’?”

Finland smiles indulgently. “What sound do your shoes make?”

Sealand quiets for a moment, focussing down on his white trainers as they tap along the concrete.

“‘Tuk-tuk-tuk’,” Sweden says.

*

They are at a restaurant.

It’s nicer than take out, but not _too_ nice. The prices are reasonable. The food is on the above average end of the spectrum. It’s good.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Finland tells Sealand, who obligingly closes his mouth.

It’s more domestic than Nations would normally be, but Sealand is the one who requested the outing, and Sweden and Finland are, at heart, very doting parents.

“What a sweet boy you have!” the waitress says to Sweden. She is perhaps in her early thirties, with straight blonde hair and a dimple in her left cheek. Very sweet, Sweden knows.

“Thank you,” Sweden says. Then, to Sealand, “Say thank you.”

Sealand peers up shyly at the waitress. “Thank you,” he choruses. The waitress beams, charmed.

“Your son is adorable,” she says again. Then her gaze shifts to Finland. She blinks, momentarily nonplussed, then she says, unsure, “And are you his uncle?”

Finland’s cheeks go scarlet and Sweden interjects with, “He’s my wife.”

The waitress blinks. “Pardon?”

“I’m not his wife,” Finland assures her. His smile is strained.

Sweden frowns.

*

He doesn’t say anything, because it seems silly and inconsequential. He loves Finland and knows that Finland loves him, and that’s all there is to it.

“Not in public,” Finland mumbles, ducking away from one of Sweden’s kisses. There’s a man selling newspapers across the street, and Finland casts fleeting glances at him every so often, visibly distressed.

Sweden loves his Finland. He loves him dearly.

But this.

This he does not like.

When they are in their own home, Finland is more than eager to mould his body to fit with Sweden’s, he leans into the feather-light touches, sighs of contentment slipping through his lips. In front of Sealand, Finland might turn his head the smallest fraction, diverting a kiss aimed for his mouth and sending it to his cheek or maybe his hair. This, while disquieting, Sweden tries not to dwell on for very long, wills himself to see that there must be logic involved, because Sealand is still very young and impressionable. But in front of Denmark at Christmas, or England when they drop off Sealand for Boxing Day, Finland clams up. Even in front of random waitresses in decently nice restaurants, he balks.

It makes Sweden uncomfortable and more than a little sad.

*

“You and Mama never go on dates,” Sealand says one night when he’s watching television with Sweden. “On TV, couples always go out on dates.” He’s tucked neatly under Sweden’s arm, his skinny legs folded up beneath him. “Why don’t you and Mama ever go out?”

Sweden licks his lips, because they’re quite dry. He says, “I don’t think Finland likes to have that sort of attention.” From out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Finland standing in the kitchen, washing dishes in the sink. The plates are white stoneware from IKEA; they clink loudly against each other when Finland stacks them in the dishwasher. It’s barely audible over the running water, but Sweden can just hear Finland humming as he works. Something by Sibelius, he thinks.

“But going out on a date looks like fun,” Sealand pipes up, eyes still fixed on the television. “You can go and eat dinner in one of those fancy restaurants where the lighting is really bad, because it’s fancy. And you can go see a movie and hold hands.” Sweden doesn’t interrupt his son, but wonders exactly how much television Sealand watches. Sealand shifts in his seat, wiggling his toes. “It sounds nice,” he says.

“It does,” Sweden agrees as he smoothes down one of Sealand’s cowlicks. “But I don’t think your Mama likes to do those kinds of things.”

Sealand pouts. “But has Mama ever gone on a date with you?” When Sweden shakes his head, Sealand points out, “So then how does Mama know he doesn’t like those kinds of things?”

*

Like the idea for Family Friday, the ideas for the date come from Sealand. The next morning, when Finland is at the table, reading the newspaper while drinking coffee and milk, Sweden lays a large hand on his shoulder. “Sealand is visiting Latvia tonight,” Sweden says, “So we have the evening to ourselves.”

Finland tilts his head back so he can smile up at Sweden. It’s amazing, Sweden thinks, how attractive Finland looks even when upside-down. “That’ll be nice. Did you want anything special for dinner?” he asks as he places his hand on top of Sweden’s. The tips of his fingers are smudged with grey from the newsprint. “I can make that one casserole you like.”

“Actually,” Sweden says, sucking in a hopeful breath, “I was thinking we could go out.”

Finland’s brows furrow. “Oh?” he says, taken aback. “I’d rather we…” he pauses, eying Sweden. “We don’t really do those things, do we?”

Sweden feels his shoulders stiffen. “We don’t,” he says shortly. Then, before Finland can get another word in, he adds, “I got us a reservation tonight. I’ll come pick you up at the office. Wear something nice.”

*

**The First Date**

They are at a restaurant.

A very nice one, too. The place is atmospherically dim, and the squat candle that sits on their table is a lurid crimson. The waiter gives Sweden a menu with a leather cover. He offers a selection of wine, and Sweden stares. He’s never even heard of these labels. Finland sits across from him, face drawn.

“We’ll just have water,” he says finally, after Sweden fails to say anything. The waiter nods and hurries away. Finland is dressed in a tidy white button-down shirt with a blue tie. This tickles Sweden; Finland looks like he’s wearing his flag.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” Finland says when the waiter is out of sight. “The prices are very…” He waves his hand. “This really isn’t necessary. We could’ve had a meal just as nice at home.”

Sweden raises an eyebrow and Finland flushes. “Don’t worry about the cost,” Sweden says, touching Finland’s hand and willing himself not to flinch when Finland grimaces at the contact. “A little splurging won’t kill. And you’re worth it,” he says.

Finland’s eyes lower, embarrassed. He pulls his hand away. “I just…” He bites his lip. “I feel like this is too much, you know?” His fingers tug at the knot of his tie. An elderly couple sitting a few tables over is staring at them, puzzled. Finland’s eyes flicker over to them. “I don’t feel comfortable here, Sweden.”

A spiny tendril of nausea coils around in Sweden’s belly, worming its way into his chest. His mouth feels dry and he looks around, wondering when the waiter will show up with their water. “Just give it a few minutes. It’s probably just nerves,” he says, horribly aware of the burning in his cheeks. He should have taken off his jacket earlier, it was getting so warm in here. “I heard from Åland that this place serves wonderful pie. I know how much you like mustikkapiirakka. Maybe we should order some later.”

“I’d rather we go home,” Finland says. He peeks over again at the other patrons of the restaurant, and Sweden narrows his eyes. Finland meets that stare and slowly rises to his feet. “I do appreciate that you took the time to plan this, but I would really have preferred a quiet night at home.” People are definitely staring now, if the tight expression on Finland’s face is any indication. “Can we please leave?”

“Here’s your wat—oh!” the waiter stops in his footsteps, his eyes moving over Sweden’s iron grip on his napkin and the deft way Finland’s fingers move to loosen his tie. “Is there something wrong, gentlemen?”

Finland’s cheeks are scarlet and he shakes his head jerkily. “No, no, we’re fine,” he says, shamefaced. “And I’m sorry for this, but we actually have to be going.” He shoots Sweden a look. “Something just came up.”

The waiter glances over at Sweden, as if asking for confirmation and Sweden sighs, pulls off his glasses and rubs at his eyes. “Yes, we need to go home,” he says into the palm of his hand.

*

To Sweden’s surprise, Norway picks up the phone after only seven rings. Normally the other Nation ignores his calls until the last possible moment out of sheer apathy. “Norway,” Norway says, not even bothering to say hello. Sweden can hear the crackle of the television playing in the background; probably a hockey game. A second or two of silence lapses before Norway says, patiently, “Yes, Sweden?”

“I have a problem I need help with,” Sweden says, sinking into his chair. Finland is off walking Hanatamago, and whenever Finland takes the leash, he always disappears for close to an hour. “It’s about Finland. About Finland and I.”

Norway hums, “Is it about his cooking? Have you told him you don’t like that casserole yet?” He sounds amused, and this makes something twinge in Sweden’s chest, because this is not a funny thing and he is not in the mood to make light.

“Can I come talk to you?” Sweden asks, because Norway does not sound drunk and he just wants to get out of this house. “It’s important.”

“It must be,” Norway says. “For you to have called me up about something non-business related, it must be very important.”

*

Norway’s house looks like a hunting lodge: it’s homely and appropriately decorated with antlers and Saami blankets and it always smells like pine nettles. When Sweden opens the closet to hang his coat, he finds nearly all of the space occupied by ski equipment—some of the skis look like antiques. There’s a plaid wool coat that is so hideous that it can only belong to Denmark.

Sure enough, when Sweden wanders into the kitchen, he finds Denmark seated at the table with a case of beer and a smile that can short-circuit the sun. Denmark waves at him so furiously, his hand is in danger of flying out of its socket. “I came just as soon as I heard you were having marital trouble,” he says brightly. “I brought beer,” he adds obviously, gesturing down at the box.

Sweden frowns. “I’m not here to get drunk,” he says in a reproving tone.

Denmark waves that off and wiggles his eyebrows. “Trust me,” he says, nudging Sweden with his elbow, “alcohol can only help.” Sweden isn’t sure he wants to know what that means.

“Getting to the point,” Norway cuts in, shooting Denmark a repulsed look. “You said you are having some problems with Finland?” He reaches for the case but Denmark slaps his hand away and Norway raises an eyebrow.

“It’s been difficult getting Finland to be affectionate,” Sweden mumbles.

Denmark merely pushes the case toward Sweden. “See,” he says, “alcohol can only help. Once he goes through this, he’ll definitely be more affectionate.”

Sweden makes a pained expression and Norway slaps Denmark upside the head, rolling his eyes. “We are not going to get Finland drunk,” he informs Denmark. To Sweden, he asks, “What do you mean affectionate? Did you mean he is uninterested in being intimate…?”

“No,” Sweden says, before Denmark can laugh at him. “Not exactly. He’s fine most of the time… It’s just when we’re out of the house…I guess he is shy?”

Norway’s eyes drift upward. “Finland has never been very publically affectionate, though, has he?”

“I suppose not.” The table they are all seated around is a veritable piece from the 19th century. There’s a small nick in the wood grain from when Norway had thrown a teakettle at Sweden’s head. He runs the pad of his index finger over the scratch, frowning when his nail slips into the blunt ding; it’s shaped like an oyster. He’s sure that the old table in the attic is covered in marks like this from when he and Finland were wild and savage fledglings. That train of thought makes his stomach churn and an unpleasant taste rises in the back of his mouth. “Is it something I did?” he asks in a small voice.

“Christ,” Denmark says, leaning back in his seat. “You’re so self-centred, Sverige. Not everything is about you, y’know.”

Norway nods in agreement. “He wouldn’t have married you if he didn’t actually love you. Finland is extremely sincere with his emotions,” he reminds Sweden. “You said that the problems are only when you leave the house?”

Sweden looks up from the mark in the table. “It’s when we’re around other people,” he says. “It’s as if he’s frightened of people knowing we’re together.” He scratches at his chin. He had shaved earlier prior to picking Finland up for their disaster date. He missed a spot, apparently; there’s a small patch of stubble near the end of his jaw line. He thinks about how Finland is much more thorough when he lathers Sweden’s face with cream and slides the razor over his skin. “Actually,” Sweden says, blinking, “he acts like this in front of you two, as well.”

“ _Us?_ ” Denmark gawks at him. “But why? We knew you two were together even before you did…” A peculiar expression descends on his face, a sort of nostalgic ‘ah, those were the days!’ look.

“Perhaps he’s just embarrassed by public displays of affection?” Norway suggests, ever the logical one. “He probably just doesn’t like having an audience. It’s not an unreasonable aversion.”

“Better keep him away from Hungary,” Denmark advises, tapping his nose with a wily smirk.

Sweden mulls over Norway’s idea: Finland is uncomfortable in front of audiences. It makes perfect sense. “All right,” he says, “I can understand that fear. But at the same time, I don’t understand it at all.” He makes a helpless gesture. “We’ve been together for so long, and I see no point in trying to conceal it. All the people who are important know and are accepting, and I don’t see any reason to fear the opinions of the public,” Sweden says. “We are all entitled to happiness, and I would never go out of my way to subjugate myself because some people are close-minded.”

Denmark stares at him for a moment before grinning and saying, “You know, I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say in one sitting.”

Sweden glares.

“But that still raises the question of how we can make Finland more comfortable,” Norway says. “Have you tried taking him out on a date?”

Sweden tells them of the failed outing at the fancy restaurant and Denmark winces. “Um, yeah,” he says, pushing the case towards Sweden again. “You definitely overwhelmed him.”

Norway pats Sweden on the arm. “You didn’t know,” he reminds him. “I think the date idea was a good one, but it needs to be executed differently. Make it a less exaggerated action; I think he’ll appreciate that more.”

“Definitely,” Denmark says. “Act like the kids these days. Take him to a movie. Try to hold his hand.”

“He might be less inhibited because no one will be able to see you two,” Norway chimes in. “In time, he may become more comfortable in public.”

Denmark bobbles his head in agreement. “And if that doesn’t work,” he pushes the case forward a third time, “you always have this to fall back on.”

*

**The Second Date**

They are at a movie theatre.

Finland seems genuinely piqued at the invite to a movie and Sweden makes no overtly affectionate gestures while they wait on line for tickets or as they sit in a comfortable silence, waiting for the lights to dim. In all honesty, Sweden doesn’t even know what movie he paid for. He just glanced up at the listing and picked the first one that he saw. Finland had been telling him about an upcoming parent-teacher conference they were supposed to have with Sealand’s teacher; apparently Sealand may need some help in mathematics. Sweden wonders if Finland will be willing to admit to Sealand’s teacher that they are in fact married.

Sweden glances to the left, peering at Finland over the rims of his glasses. Finland cradles his cell phone in his hand, turning the ringer to vibrate. His head is tilted downward at a gentle angle, and Sweden recognises that he is in deep thought. His eyes are half-open and he’s breathing quietly through his mouth. Their shoulders are pressed against each other, and the warmth is soothing.

There aren’t too many at the movies that afternoon, and Sweden is thankful for this. The few viewers are scattered about the rows; none are that close to Sweden and Finland, who sit in the second to last row. None would be able to see if Sweden moved to meet Finland’s lips.

“I made a pie today,” Finland says, eyes still downcast. The lights dim, and he leans a little closer to Sweden, breathes a little easier. “I doubt it’ll be as good as the one the restaurant has, but it should still be edible.” The knitted sweater he wears is a gift from Sápmi: white with black and red images of reindeer. The neckline is a shallow V, dipping to a stop between the points of his collarbone. It looks a little lumpy on Finland, but that’s more to do with Sápmi’s impatience with knitting and less with Finland’s actual physique. Finland’s hands fiddle with the red hem of the sweater, and Sweden fights the urge to roll the sleeves up for him, they’re so long.

“I’m sure it will be delicious,” Sweden says. He wants to touch him, trace the curve of his ears.

The theatre is dark now and the credits are rolling. Sweden intently watches Finland, barely reminding himself to breathe and counting the time in between his heartbeats. He wonders if Finland’s heart is beating just as quickly, if those slow breaths are calculated. Their arms are touching, sharing the armrest, and Sweden inches his hand to the left, just the barest fraction of a centimetre. The side of Finland’s hand brushes against the side of Sweden’s. Finland’s breath stills for a pregnant moment, and Sweden does not move, determined not to frighten him away. The lights are off, the only illumination comes from the screen, and, gently, Sweden turns his hand so his palm is exposed, not a request, but a wish.

*

“Papa is in a good mood,” Sealand says when Sweden picks him up after school. Sweden flashes his son a small smile and pats him on the head. Sealand slips his hand into Sweden’s as they turn to walk home. Sealand’s hand is small and soft, and Sweden squeezes it. Sealand smiles up at him. “What did you do today, Papa?”

Sweden sticks his left hand in his pocket. It still tingles and he can still feel the heat from when Finland’s fingers were laced with his own. “Your mama and I went to watch a movie,” he says.

“Cool,” Sealand says. “Which one?” When Sweden shrugs, Sealand laughs and kicks at a twig lying on the sidewalk. “You’re so weird.”

They walk the expanse of a block in relative silence, Sealand watching his feet clomp on the sidewalk, the _tuk-tuk-tuk_ of his shoes is swallowed by the sounds of passing cars and buses. Sealand asks, “So you and Mama went on a date?”

Sweden takes a moment to consider the question. “No,” he replies, undiscouraged, “but we’ll get there.”

Sealand seems pleased with this and nods his head. “You should take Mama out for a snow cone,” he says. “That’s what they always do on TV.”

Sweden says, “You watch too much television.”

*

When they get home, Finland is sitting on the couch with Hanatamago, watching a Pixar movie. “Oh!” Sealand exclaims as he shucks his knapsack into a corner. “I love that movie. The dog is the best.” He barrels into the living room and jumps onto the couch beside Finland. The house smells like the pie he baked earlier and Sweden’s mouth waters. He slowly removes his jacket.

Finland smiles and kisses Sealand on the forehead. “Speaking of dogs,” he says, “I really should take Hanatamago out for a walk.” He pats his thigh twice and Hanatamago hops into his lap. “How about a walk in the park?” Hanatamago yips excitedly and licks Finland’s hand. Finland scoops her up into his arms and rises to his feet. He steps next to Sweden, who is still standing by the closet. “I was wondering,” Finland says, tentatively, “would you like to come on the walk with us, Sweden?”

Sweden nearly drops his jacket. Finland graciously does not comment.

“Papa, you can go,” Sealand says, tearing his eyes away from the television screen for a moment. “I’ll be fine.” He runs off to get Hanatamago’s leash from the table near the door. “Go to the park,” he says. He widens his eyes at Sweden and says, in a conspiratorial tone, “There’s a guy that sells snow cones there.”

“I see,” Sweden says, raising an eyebrow at his son.

“Snow cones?” Finland repeats, perking up. Hanatamago squirms in his arms and snuffles in his neck, Finland laughs, turning his face away from the tickle. “You know,” he says as he tilts his head back, “I haven’t had a snow cone in a very long time… Probably not since that time we went to the zoo.” He takes the leash from Sealand and smiles up at Sweden, “Snow cones might be nice.”

*

**Walking the Dog**

“Here you go,” the snow cone vendor says, passing two red and blue snow cones over to Finland. “Better eat them quickly,” he advises, handing Sweden napkins. “Before they melt.”

“So,” Sweden says as they stroll down the path, Hanatamago trotting freely in front of them. “That was nice. Going to the movies, I mean.” He takes a bite of his snow cone and instantly regrets it, wincing at the snap of cold that shocks the nerves in his gums. “Would you like to do that again sometime?” he asks.

Finland nods heartily. “It was nice,” he says, smiling. There’s a bit of blue ice in the corner of his mouth. Sweden thinks about reaching forward to brush the blue shavings away, but thinks better of it and makes a small hand gesture, scratching at the corner of his own mouth with a discreet look. Finland immediately licks away the ice.

Hanatamago stops to bark at a nearby squirrel. The squirrel is nearly her size. Finland shoos it away and Hanatamago barks once more for good measure before resuming the walk. Sweden chuckles at this and remarks, “Maybe I should come on these walks more often.”

“You should,” Finland says, nudging him with his elbow. “It’s especially good in the fall—so many squirrels. Sometimes Hanatamago gets excited and chases them around, and then I have to chase after her.” He waves a hand and a bit of ice breaks off from his snow cone and lands on the ground with a small plop.

“It sounds like fun,” Sweden says in between bites.

Finland nods. “You should definitely come with us more often. Sealand, too.” The ice is melting through the white wax paper of the cone; Sweden is certain Finland’s fingers will soon become sticky from the sugary water. Then Finland’s eyes go a little misty, a little distant. “I’ve been meaning to apologise to you for the other day,” he says, subdued. “For the thing at the restaurant.”

Sweden purses his lips, but doesn’t say anything.

Finland continues, “It was a very kind gesture. It was very thoughtful, and I didn’t appreciate it, and I’m pretty sure that hurt you…” Finland reaches over to Sweden, touches the sleeve of his jacket. “I’ve been talking to Estonia and Sápmi a lot in the past few days, and I’ve done a lot of thinking about it.”

_It?_ Sweden wonders. He can feel the snow cone melting in his hand. He tips out some of the water and looks for the nearest garbage receptacle. “About what?” he asks, voice low and apprehensive. He has to force the words out from where they stick to the roof of his mouth. He throws the cone away into a nearby trash can. “What do you mean?”

“I…” Finland furrows his brow and frowns, stumbling over his thoughts. “I know I’m difficult sometimes with…” He makes a vague waving gesture with his snow cone. “I’m not good at being affectionate in public,” he says, and Sweden blinks. Finland’s cheeks are shaded with a faint dusting of pink. “I just,” he says, awkwardly, “I just find it hard.” His shoulders are stooped, and the corners of his lips tug downward. The fingers grasping Sweden’s sleeve tighten, curl into a fist. “Sweden,” he says, quietly, “I love you, you know. It’s just that sometimes…” He makes a wounded sound; the snow cone has completely melted, purple water spilling over his fingers with each step. “I just feel like when we’re with other people, all these feelings get squished down into this tiny little jar, and the lid is screwed on so tightly that no matter how hard I try, I can’t open it…”

Finland sucks in a shaky breath and Sweden watches him, looking for the first sign of tears. But he doesn’t cry, just presses on, “And I’m so sorry it’s like this, Sweden, I’m sorry. I know it’s not the way you want it to be—it’s not the way I want it to be either—but I’m going to try and fix it. I’ll be more comfortable, I will. It’ll just take a little time, but sometimes you get this look in your eyes, like you’re fraying at the seams, and I know that I can help you, but I just haven’t figured out how yet. But I will.” He drops the soggy paper cone and it hits the ground with a wet plop. When he looks up at Sweden, there are no tears, just an endless sea of fiery determination.

“So,” Finland says, “we’ll go to the movies, Sweden. We’ll go every day, if we need to. And I’ll hold your hand. And we’ll go out to dinner, too. And we’ll fight over the cheque and order wines that we’ve never heard of. It’ll be just how you want it.” He offers a small smile and jokes, “We’ll even go to Stockholm Pride, if you want. I’ll lead the parade. We’ll get matching shirts that says ‘husband’ and ‘wife’.”

Sweden reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few napkins. He holds out his hand, palm upturned, and Finland places his sticky hand in Sweden’s, the movement is slow but does not hesitate. Sweden gently dabs at the purple sugar water with the napkin and says, while smiling, “I think I’d much rather see you in a feather boa and spandex.”

Finland laughs out loud, the sound wavers and is like water flooding from a dam, and it’s beautiful. “Sweden, I may learn to kiss you in public, but I will never, _ever_ , wear something like that in front of another living being.”

Sweden chuckles and squeezes his hand. He opens his mouth to say more, but falls short when Hanatamago starts barking. A group of bicyclists are rapidly approaching and Finland tenses, his eyes roving over to the pack of bikers. He bites his lip.

“It’s okay,” Sweden says softly, dropping Finland’s hand and ignoring the pang in his chest, the gripping, choking sensation that threatens to engulf him. The bikers are only a couple metres away. Sweden swallows thickly. “It’s okay.”

Finland stares at him, dumbstruck, and finally nods. “Yeah. Yeah,” he says, turning to look at the fast approaching crowd. “It’s okay.”

The bikers are two metres away when Finland tugs Sweden down by the collar and presses their lips together.

**Author's Note:**

>  


End file.
